


Skinnygirl

by herpatoidAcephalist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herpatoidAcephalist/pseuds/herpatoidAcephalist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reflection on Roxy Lalonde's relationship with alcohol, and with her friends. None of her relationships were quite what she wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skinnygirl

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the brand of premixed cocktails.
> 
> This is pretty sad, but I didn't tag it sadstuck, because sadstuck tends to be EXTREEEME and this is just quietly morose. Thanks for reading!

I love a good martini,  
Two at the very most.  
At three I'm under the table,  
At four I'm under the host.  
-Dorothy Parker

Your name is Roxy Lalonde, and you had your first sip of the stuff at ten years old. You were fascinated by the bottles, the different shapes and sizes, how they all seemed to curve around the neck in smooth parabolas the way your shoulders curved around you. You wanted to have the red wine first, intrigued by the dusty, yellowing label, but you did not have a corkscrew and did not know what to do with one besides. You settled for vodka, with its twist-off top and mysterious clarity. You held the bottle up to your nose, first, smelling nothing but still tearing up. The brand name was unpronounceable, the blurb on the back in Polish, and the smallish bottle curled to your palm like a loving kitten. 

You hated it, at first sip. But the second sip was all right.

You remember sipping turning into swigging around six o'clock at night. You don't remember when the bottle became unwieldy, strangely heavy in your hand even though it should be noticeably lighter. You don't remember falling asleep on the couch, laptop open and perched dangerously close to the edge of the coffee table.

You remember the next morning. It wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. You decided to try the brandy, next.

At eleven years old, you knew how to work a corkscrew. You offered drinks to your neighbors, but they shook their heads and declined--some of them verbally, and some of them with hand gestures. You couldn't always understand your neighbors. It bothered you less when you had a few drinks in you. You started drinking beer with breakfast, enjoying the way it settled on top of your oatmeal in your stomach.

You made fewer and fewer mistakes with liquors as you reached twelve. You looked up cocktail recipes and learned how to serve them as works of liquid art. You learned how to chop an onion without crying. You learned how to zest a lemon and sugar the rim of a wide, sweeping glass. You memorized exotic names: anisette and prosecco and kaluha. 

On your twelfth birthday, you made yourself a bloody mary and watched yourself drink it in the bathroom mirror. You pulled your shirt down, using your arms to give yourself as much cleavage as you could manage at the time. You wetly licked your lips, letting the tomato juice stain them red. You watched the lines between your eyebrows smooth out, and your watched your red spots and freckles blur and fade away. You winked to yourself.

"Hey there, lil mama," you said over the rim on your glass. "You sure are a tall drink 'f waterrr."

You weren't sure what that meant, but you liked how it sounded.

You remember meeting Dirk Strider at thirteen. He was the first voice of reason in your life you actually enjoyed listening to. His hobbies were so ridiculous, his coolkid facade so fantastic, that you couldn't help but hang on his words. 

The first time you Skyped with Dirk Strider, you remember the way your skin tingled, like you were drinking gin from the inside out. His accent was subtle, slipping in and out of his sentences like a magician's hands in silk. You toasted to him, once.

"Don't," he said. "Or, at least, not with that."

You looked at the drink in your hand. It was a tiny flute of absinthe, milky white and ice cold. 

"Why not?" You asked, a little fuzzy. Dirk's eyes, his skin, and the sunlight from his window bleached the scene on your computer into a firey yellow. Angelic, you thought. And when he tugged his lips down, frowning at your hand, his mouth looked plump.

"Isn't it three in the afternoon, where you are?" He asked. "Not to mention, I don't know, your lack of twenty-one-ness?"

You remember moving like liquid yourself, lounging back on your bed, propping up your head, and raising your glass in one motion, not spilling a drop or moving a hair out of place.

"It's the end of the world, Dirky," you say. "They don't card at the end of the world."

And you drained your glass, the crisp black licorice of the absinthe refreshing you even as it obscured your vision.

You had a lot of those conversations when you were thirteen, you remember. Jane Crocker was particularly adamant, cheeks puffed out as she tried (and failed) to bite her tongue. You liked watching her get riled up; the way her skin would flush, as if with exertion, and how her eyes would go a little glassy for you. You drank dry martinis, with Jane. You would suck the pimento from the olive and crunch it between your teeth, smiling.

"It's against the law," Jane said, "and more importantly it will stunt your growth, RoLal!"

"C'moooon, Janey," you said, setting your laptop down so you could cross your legs, your knees level with your keyboard. Jane held your gaze, not sparing a glance for your pale thighs or the modest softness of your breasts. "It's jus' for fun. You like _The Thin Man,_ don't you?" You put on your huskiest voice. "'I'll have six martinis. Just set them up--'"

"'--Right along here,'" she finished, flustered, "but that's hardly the point! Jeepers, Roxy, I know the difference between my detective shows and real life."

You shrugged one elegant shoulder, turning the soft techno on your laptop up to eleven.

Jake English was the only one who appreciated it. He admired the practiced way your fingers twisted the cork from the champagne, how it smoked from the green glass like a sultry volcano. You showed him the way it would mix with deep purple cassis in your flute, turning into something more than just average bubbly, something _royale_ that tasted like black currants and flowers. He liked it best when you found a garnish for your drinks--muddled fruits or olives, things that made the tumblers look downright professional.

“You look like a dame who knows what she wants,” he told you once, laughing from the top of some tree, watching the sun rise just as you wind down for the night. “You’re already such a classy lady! And here I am, still diamond in the roughing it. If that!”

You sipped your kir royale, pinky up, and smiled at him the way you had been practicing. It made him smile, but more importantly, sometimes it made him blush. With the lighting the way it was, you couldn’t tell if it had been successful, that time.

“You’re right, Jakey,” you said. “I _do_ know what I want.”

And bless him if his laugh didn’t sound a little strained.

At fifteen, you could walk with rolling hips without trying. You shaved your legs, rubbing in lotion mixed with aloe to stretch it out--it’s not like you could get more when you ran out of it. You were a womanly Hemingway, writing drunk and editing sober (though you hated editing; a chore instead of a pleasure, and a guaranteed headache). You were elegant. You were refined. You filled out your shirts and your skirts, and, damn, you _were_ that tall drink of water you mentioned to your reflection way back when.

One night, after a long day of writing and helping your neighbors, you pestered Jake. You were tired of Jane’s self-righteousness, and of Dirk’s snide dismissal. You wanted to talk to someone who understood, but you didn’t know anyone who did, so instead you chose someone benign.

You talked about movies--old noir flicks, specifically the kind that Jane likes, with women in furs and gloves and long, slender fingers. You told him you’d love to watch a movie with him someday, and you remember being direct, maybe too direct even for Jake. You don’t remember exactly what you said, but his words burned on your laptop screen, the perfect green of his eyes instantly ruined.

GT: Haha whoa there rox!  
GT: A fella might get the wrong idea! I know its just the gigglewater talking but still.  
GT: I wonder if thats why they call it liquid courage?  
GT: Uhh if you were serious about that i mean!! Which i know youre not. Were just pals!  
GT: Youre a great pal roxy.

You closed your laptop with a snap, putting your mug on the windowsill with heavy arms, and cried. Your heavy mascara and black lips smeared over your pillow, but it was the only warm thing in your room, so you could not let it go even as it stained your skin back. The next morning, you did not remember, but your computer helpfully reminded you.

You woke yourself up with vodka rocks, and decided that Jake was charming, if pretty slow. So was Dirk, in his own way, and Jane. It’s never “just the gigglewater talking.” It’s just a friendlier, happier you. Couldn’t they see how happy you were?

The pillowcase was beyond saving, since you couldn’t waste the bleach on just one piece of laundry. You gave it to your neighbors--it was starting to get colder, after all, and they were small enough that even a soiled sheet could be bundled over them for warmth.

You were a warm, caring person. You were a beautiful, _fierce_ person, quickly becoming a woman, and a woman who knew what she wanted. Everyone liked you and laughed at your jokes. Everyone liked you.

No one loved you, but that was okay. With your ready wit, cute smile, and easy confidence, it was just a matter of time, and luckily you could make time pass faster. They’d love you someday.

You could wait.


End file.
